CHAPTER XVI
For hours Philip Rowe lay wakeful in the lumpy bed in the Commercial House, first tossing in a fever of desire, later lying quietly while his mind spun.
Marcia Murray had played her hand well, superbly well for a losing hand. She had made the most of what John Taylor had told her, of what she knew of his father's character, and of how Rowe reacted to the news she let him worm from her.
For years Philip Rowe had bent his sharp wits toward gaining a place between the Taylors, father and son. Like young John he had wanted fortune, but he was not afraid to grub. He had been faithful to Luke, more faithful to himself; he had studied, he had learned, he had watched and waited. On that morning in Detroit when he took notes for the framing of a new will, he believed he had triumphed, but the arrival of the letter from John telling that he had turned his father's shabby trick to profit knocked the foundation from beneath his hopes—for a time. He did not give up, though for another it would have been difficult to keep hope alive before old Luke's delight over the change in his boy.
The new will was not drawn, but Rowe knew that behind Luke's reaction to John's success there was persistent skepticism. With the coming of John's letters, asking for backing in this vaguely defined new scheme, that skepticism challenged paternal favor. Rowe understood, Rowe watched closer than ever. He was sent to Pancake to investigate with the knife of his self-seeking unsheathed, ready to strike at the first weakness Taylor might show.
And now it was so easy! Marcia had given him the best reason for hope that he had encountered in weeks. John Taylor, wanting to use his father's money for the gain of unborn generations! He smiled as he lay there. He would see Luke's face darken, could hear his stinging outburst.
Again his mind went back to Marcia. All winter she had toyed with him clandestinely in Florida. In Detroit he had seen much of her and the flirtation had been brisk—and tonight for the first time she had surrendered her lips and after she had given to him the information which seemed to open the way to an attainment of his dreams.
He sat up abruptly and stared out the window.
Had that been conscious? Had she realized, as he realized, the possibilities of this change in John's ambition? He drew a hand slowly through his hair and laughed quietly.
"You devil!" he whispered and laughed again, as if he had been fooled, and admired the wit that fooled him.
As surely as two ships in a motionless sea move toward one another, just that certainly will like personalities drift toward their kind. Rogue finds rascal; male flapper unerringly meets his congenial companion; intelligence discovers intelligence.
Marcia Murray had gone by the time Rowe awakened and Jim Harris was alone in the dining room when Phil entered. The men spoke gravely across the soiled linen, and Jim rattled his paper and remarked casually on the headlines as he would to any stranger. But two hours later they stood in Harris' room, looking down into the street where Helen stopped her noisy car to let John Taylor out, and Harris looked at Rowe and winked as he might have winked at a companion of years.
"Quite a gal, what?" he chuckled. "And maybe that explains a lot, Rowe."
The other's lips twitched in a sardonic smile, and though he said nothing it was evident that he understood.
Taylor did not look at the hotel register, for Henry Wales was at the desk, struggling over one of his pale, inflammable cigars, else he would have seen the fine signatures "M. Murray, Detroit." That might have added to the trouble that lurked in his eyes, aftermath of yesterday's scene; or, to have linked her name with Rowe's might have been relief. No matter. John did not seek information from the register, but asked his question of Henry, who said that Mr. Rowe got in last night; was upstairs now. "This's him, " as steps sounded on the stairs.
Rowe and Harris came down together and the former suavely greeted John, assured and superior.
"You know Mr. Harris, of course."
Yes, Taylor knew Harris, and as he acknowledged the acquaintance he looked from one to the other, sensing something of their kinship, but reading no import there—not then.
Harris went out. Taylor and Rowe went into the small and hideous parlor of the hotel. They smoked. They talked briskly of Luke and John's mother, of the lumber market, of the season, Rowe waiting like a cat at a mousehole, Taylor uneasy. Face to face with his father's secretary he was impressed with a lack of sympathy for his new enthusiasm and he dreaded getting at the matter which had brought Rowe north.
Suddenly Rowe precipitated the subject: "I've been with your father over seven years, Taylor. I never saw him quite so worked up as he was over your last letter."
"I thought it must have interested him, sending you up here. " John shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Michigan pine is to him—not like red to a bull; like freedom to a Bolshevist, perhaps."
Taylor smiled. 'He's always lived in the past, with the pine, Rowe. I thought of that: that it might give him a chance to live in the future."
"Or to live in the present? That would be better. Your father can't have very many years left." Pause.
"When your letter came in, mentioning Michigan white pine in a big tract, he forgot his cane. He walked up and down the room without it—for the first time in years."
"That's fine!"
"He rushed me up here, not because he wouldn't take your word"—with a cautious glance at John, "but because he wants you to speed up the deal. He'll go in with you, if the values can be established; he wants camps operating this fall."
John started.
"Camps?"
"Surely. He knows he hasn't much time left. It's been his dream—to finish as he began: cutting Michigan pine; a dream without foundation until now."
Taylor shook his head.
"It's not a question of buying and logging," he said.
Rowe paused in the act of striking a match.
"You don't want to buy?" he asked incredulously.
"It couldn't be bought, in the first place; and it isn't ready for harvest yet—you see, Rowe—"
He sat forward and for half an hour talked of Foraker's Folly, of the country adjacent, of what it had been, of what it was now; talked of Thad Parker and his wife's death. He did not mention Jim Harris; some undefined warning checked the bitter sentence at his teeth and he went on from Michigan pine plains to lumber markets and supply—He was careful to explain clearly, to make no over-statement. He went into the history of Helen's forest, told what he knew of the forest practice thereof, of the fire prevention, of the thinnings, the income and the future plans.
"I see," said Rowe when he had finished, and looked through the window with a malignant twinkle in his black eyes. "It's a case of—of taking some of the money that was made from Michigan pine to grow more Michigan pine."
"Exactly!"
"And—perhaps making some of that fortune perform a duty which most men wouldn't recognize: putting it to work to help pay for some of the ruin it made of this country?"
"You get the idea, Rowe!" Taylor burst out enthusiastically, and stopped shortly. He did not like the straightening of the other's arm in its coat sleeve as Rowe raised his cigar to his lips. It smacked of a gesture of triumph and Rowe continued staring through the window.
Before John could say more Rowe asked: "And how much help will you need?"
"I don't know."
"You haven't anything to go on, then?" as if disappointed.
"Not yet. You see, Miss Foraker needs help very badly, I think. I—I didn't want to hold out any false hopes to her. I wanted to be sure before I mentioned it."
"I see—" Once more the gleam of triumph came into his eye. "Have you had it estimated?"
"No. I've gone on the opinion of others."
"Your father wired Tolman, his old cruiser, to meet me here. He should be up from Saginaw today. It won't take him long to give us something definite and dependable."
"The value's there, all right," John said. "Tolman's report should satisfy father. I suppose he'll want that first."
He had risen.
"Surely," said Rowe, lightly enough. "A matter of a few days—and it won't take him long to make up his mind when he hears the facts," with a light sniff.
"You'll stay on, then?"
"I think not. I'll get out as soon as Tolman gets in, which'll probably be tonight."
They halted on the steps of the hotel.
"I don't suppose, then, there's any chance of buying?" Rowe asked.
"Not one in the world!"
"But if this Miss—Miss Foraker needs help so badly, I should think—"
"You don't know her! She'd lose everything before she'd listen to talk of selling!"
"And you wouldn't try to influence her?"
John shook his head emphatically.
"Buying is out of the question, Phil. That's one reason I want to help her—so no man can ever come in and take advantage of her circumstances, force a sale and ruin this plan."
"She's converted you to her idea all right!"
"By Jove, Rowe, she has that! I'd as soon lose my right arm as see that stuff cut now."
"You inspire me!"
They parted and Rowe went inside to stand by the window watching John swing along the sidewalk.
"Your right arm, eh? Well—by making that crack—about your right arm, you may lose your birthright."
He examined the time table hanging beside the desk and then entered the telephone booth. His call was for Miss Marcia Murray, at Windigo Lodge.
That afternoon Jim Harris and Philip Rowe drove north from Pancake. They did not stop at the Harris development project, though they left the main road there. They went on, along a seldom used trail, coming eventually to the southwest corner of Foraker's Folly. They left the car and crossed the fire line and within the shelter of the ranks of pine trees Rowe took a small camera from his pocket. They walked three miles or more through the forest, stopping now and then where the light and perspective were right to preserve for the discontented eyes of Luke Taylor the things which theirs could see.
They were together that night at supper, together when the nine-ten arrived, bringing the small, silent Tolman, turkey slung over his shoulder. They sat together a half hour later on the baggage truck on the station platform, waiting for the down-bound train.
"It's good," said Harris, rolling his cigar with satisfaction, "to have somebody I can talk to without doing a lot of rattling around and side-stepping. I can help you, Rowe, and I'd sure welcome some other substantial interests to this country."
"I think they're on their way," said his companion.
Harris nodded emphatically.
"I think so, too. I hope so—And I'll work to realize that hope. Anyhow, we've got a common interest. I've been a good servant for Pontiac Power and they've given me my chance with a big piece of this development proposition, but, damn it all, they expect me to do all their dirty work up here without any backing. I've protected their interests all right and I've made some money for myself, but I want to make a lot of money, Rowe—a lot of it. I need roads and schools to build up that project; I'm going to have 'em, too—an' when she sees her tax bill—that's going to help you! She won't be able to stand the racket—she won't be able to get her breath when I get through with her."
He laughed good naturedly.
"And she's alone? She hasn't any backing?"
"Not any that's worth a damn except—" He turned his head to look up First Street to where a light showed above the office of the Banner; he flicked the ash from his cigar and cleared his throat. "Just one old anarchist, Hump Bryant."
"The senator?"
"Yup," sourly. "Course he and I ain't clashed yet, but it's bound to come. He commenced stirrin' up a dust about timber taxes a few years ago. That was all right; he couldn't get anywhere and I wouldn't have kicked on that, anyhow. But now he's spreadin' out and 's asking too damn many questions about farms that are started and abandoned on these light lands. He wants to start some nutty land reform movement. We'll mix, yet. He's treading mighty close to my bunions. And he's lined up with the gal, all right. He's her port when it blows uncomfortable hard."
In the far distance the down train whistled and Rowe stood up, shaking his coat.
"About this other, though? This matter of taxes? You think you're safe there? You've got the supervisors thinking your way?"
Harris brushed ashes from his breast and laughed.
"Thinkin'? Hell, Rowe, these yaps haven't got anything to think with. But as for havin' them—" He thrust out one hand and held it close to the other's face, fist clenched. "Like that!" he said beneath his breath.
In other places in Pancake that night Helen Foraker was in the minds of men. In the bank of Pancake, for one, where Ezam Grainger sat at his desk, securities spread before him, going through the papers, making neat notes. His tight little face was harried and the stiff, straight collar slightly wilted from the moisture of his wrinkled neck, and now and then he muttered to himself.
From the stack of mortgages he took the next document. It was a paper covering title to three sections of Foraker's Folly: it was for $20,000. It was due, he saw, within three weeks. And when he put it down he checked it on a list before him and wrote beside it the one word: "Renew."
The door opened and Doctor Pelly came in. Ezam frowned over his glasses to identify the newcomer, then started up eagerly and opened the gate in the office railing.
"You've been to the house, doctor?" he asked nervously.
The physician shoved back his derby wearily and took a morsel of chewing tobacco from a pocket of his unbuttoned vest, winking roguishly, and apparently unmindful of Ezam's agitation.
"Better 'n Blaud's, Ezam," he said, taking a chair and stretching out his dusty shoes with a sigh. "Yeah, I've been over to see Lily."
Grainger fidgeted in his chair. His eyes showed, with their eagerness, a rare timidity.
"You two are all het up over nothing," Pelly said, and the other stiffened as though the pronouncement were an affront. "If I was a young doctor and not a friend, I'd welcome patients like your wife, Ezam. They've given many a young cub his start; nothin' better in the way of practice than a nervous woman with plenty of money. Nothing you can do for 'em, so there's no danger of their gettin' well. Only way you can lose 'em is to fail to take 'em seriously."
He winked again and the banker cleared his throat.
"Why in Sam Hill don't you an' Lily light out of here?" Pelly asked bluntly. "You can do more for her than I can, Ezam. You and your car and a part of your income spent liberal like."
Grainger settled back in his chair, reassured by the confidence in the doctor's tone.
"You've been here since the hills were hollows. You've made your pile. What's the idea of keepin' on?"
"Why—why, a man must keep busy."
Pelly negotiated the cuspidor safely.
"Busy, hell! You've been busy enough to last three or four lifetimes. The trouble with Lily is she ain't been busy enough. If—if there'd been more children there wouldn't 've been this trouble; if you'd call it a job and pulled out half a dozen years ago you wouldn't 've been in this stew."
He took off his derby and mussed his thin hair.
"You know, Ezam," crossing his knees, "Lily wasn't cut out for Pancake. It was all right for a while, but now it's used up her interest and 's after her nerve. Shucks! You're going to dry up and blow away in some hot wind yourself if you don't play a little! Sell your toy bank or give it away or somethin'! You've made your pile; you can play the rest of your life and never think twice about a new pair of shoes if prices never go down! Put Lily in your car, set fire to the house, light out for Maine for the summer, do New York in the fall and see the boy, drop over to California for the winter and maybe give Honolulu the once-over in the spring. Come back and look in on us in the summer for a few weeks; on your way again!"
He waved his hand elaborately. "Simple as skinnin' a cat!"
"You don't understand, doctor. It's—"
"Course I understand! You're in a rut and think th' world depends on your runnin' the bank of Pancake. Lily's in a rut, too, and Pancake's holdin' her in it. Don't try to tell me there's anything to hold you here but a habit. You know, Ezam, if I was fixed like you are, now—" He scratched his head fiercely and spit again and winked and ambled on, telling of how he would play, given the opportunity.
The down train stopped and went on. Jim Harris tapped on the window and waved his hand and passed. Talk within lagged.
"Tim Burdick's wife 's due for another kid or so tonight," Pelly said rising. "Got to get along." He buttoned his vest.
"Maybe there's something in what you say," Ezam admitted. "Our own affairs always seem large—and Lily—is all I have, now—she and the bank—"
He looked through the window and saw Harris mount the steps of the Commercial House.
"Widdemer, the new vice-president of Pontiac Power, was in from Bay City the other day. He'd be interested to buy, I think."
Pelly looked sharply at him.
"That so? He made an offer?"
"Well, not exactly, he wanted me to make one."
"That's reasonable. You do it, Ezam. There's nothing wrong with Lily now, but women are funny machines. She's all you've got—if she was mine—well, I'd want to give her a chance." He was grave then and gave his head a serious twist.
"Pontiac Power wants the bank, eh?" the doctor muttered. "Well, they're all right so far as I know, but between you and me and the rest of the town, Ezam, Harris don't wear very well." He shrugged. "I'd hate to think of Thad Parker's wife if I was him—and a lot of other men and women. Hear anything about his new road proposition?"
The banker nodded.
"He wants it—bad."
"He'll get it, then."
"He always has."
"And Foraker's Folly is going to hold the bag?"
"Oh, I don't think he could work that, but maybe he'll make Helen trouble. Humphrey thinks so. He's feeling the supervisors out, I'm told."
The doctor's mouth shut grimly.
"Yes, Hump is getting busy. Bless his old hide"
"Well, most everybody has trouble," he remarked. "Wish everybody had as easy a way out as you have, Ezam. Night. Have another voter for Pontiac Power by morning, I expect."
The door closed. Ezam went slowly back to his desk and sat there, stiff and prim on the chair, but his eyes dreamed.
And across the way in his rooms above the office of the Banner, Humphrey Bryant rocked in a chair that lurched sideways each time he swayed forward. His shoes were off, spectacles pushed back on his head. The windows were open and he sat alone, looking out to where the lights of the Commercial House and the unusual gleam from the bank windows threw beams across the white dust of the street.
On the opposite side of the window was another chair, which he had drawn from its accustomed corner before he sat down; a wooden rocker, stuffed with calico pillows and draped with the same limp material. It had been in that corner ever since the old man had begun living alone, when Maggie Bryant gave up and was taken out to the plot of barren ground on the edge of the village and buried beneath the jack pines. Usually that rocker stood in its corner undisturbed weeks at a time, but occasionally there came a night, as this one, when his step on the stairs was slow, when he sighed wearily as he pulled off the Congress shoes, and at such times he would draw the chair out to a place by the stove in winter, to this place by the window in summer, and sit beside it and rock, and touch it now and then and talk to it—a great deal.
"She seems more like our own, Maggie," he said after a time. "I sat looking at her today in the office and she seemed like our own girl, not like some other man's—I s'pose that's 'cause she's young and sweet and the sort we'd like to have had for a daughter—if we'd ever had any—and she's in trouble too—though she don't know the worst yet—and needs a family—"
Silence, with the frogs and night insects far off.
"No, Maggie," shaking his head, "it won't do to hope too much. Sim Burns has talked a lot and stirred folks up and maybe if he was inclined to back down now he couldn't—and save his face—
"Looked up the assessed valuation of Chief Pontiac Power today—dams, buildings, key positions was all I knew—they've got it at two hundred thousand—they've got six millions in the county or I've got six legs."
He rocked a little more violently, the chair rumbling on the thin carpet.
"It's Harris I'm afraid of—he's intelligent and without scruple—which makes a worthy foe. He's shrewd—I've prodded around a little, but they're mighty close with their plans." He twisted his head and folded his hands across his stomach.
"Poor Helen—I don't know—she's always come to me when she's been in trouble and I've always been able to help her—but this time—I won't have much to say—maybe nothing—"
For long he rocked there, talking to the memory of the woman whose empty rocker was beside him. Late at night he rose and from his vest pocket drew the worn notebook with pages devoted to dates and hours and the names of men. He studied it gravely.
On the date at the top of a page he placed a gnarled finger. "An ace," he muttered. "They're always the first week in the month, when Pontiac Power pays off its other help." He moved his finger to the first column, which recorded the time and nodded briskly. "Another ace; there never have been two at once." He scanned the names written there and riffled the pages, on each of which was set down the personnel of the board of supervisors. "A third ace—they are all there—every time—" He closed the book and held it between his old palms.
"And—there's a card in the hole, but I'm afraid to look at it—and threes, even aces, aren't much to bet everything on."